12 songs of various nationalities

God save our Lord the King!
Long live our gracious King!
God save the King!
Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save our King.

O Lord, our God, arise,
Scatter his enemies
And make them fall!
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On thee our hopes we fix,
God save us all!

Thy choicest gifts in store,
On him be pleased to pour,
Lomg may he reign!
May he defend our laws,
And ever give us cause,
To sing, with heart and voice,
God save the King!

Then, soldier! Come fill high the wine,
For we reck not of tomorrow;
Be ours today and we resign
All the rest to the fools of sorrow.
Gay be the hour  'til we beat to arms
Then comrade Death or Glory;
'Tis Victory in all her charms,
Or 'tis Fame in the world's bright story.

'Tis you, 'tis I that may meet the ball;
And me it better pleases
In battle, brave, with the brave to fall,
Than to die of dull diseases;
Driveller to be in my fireside chair
With saws and tales unheeded;
A tottering thing of aches and care
No longer lov'd nor needed.

But thou, O dark is thy flowing hair,
Andthine eye with fire is streaming,
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air,
Sits health in triumph beaming.
Thou, brother soldier, fill the wine,
Fill high to love and beauty;
Love, friendship, honour, all are thine,
Thy country and thy duty.

Refrain:
 O Charlie is my darling,
 My darling, my darling;
 O Charlie is my darling,
 The young cavalier.

'Twas on a Monday morning,
When birds were singing clear;
That Charlie to the Highlands came,
The gallant cavalier.

(Refrain)

And many a gallant Scottish chief,
Came round their Prince to cheer,
That Charlie was their darling,
The young cavalier.

(Refrain)

Now up the wild Glen Nevis,
And down by Locky side;
Young Malcom leaves his shealing,
And Donald leaves his bride.

(Refrain)

O Sanctissima,
O piissima
Dulcis Virgo Maria!
Mater amata,
Intemerata,
Ora pro nobis!

There was a jolly miller once
Lived on the River Dee;
He work'd and sang from morn till night,
No lark more blithe than he.
And this the burden of his song
Forever used to be;
I care for nobody, no, not I,
If nobody cares for me.

The reason why he was so blithe,
He once did thus unfold;
The bread I eat my hands have earn'd;
I covet no man's gold;
I do not fear next quarter-day;
In debt to none I be.
I care for nobody, no, not I,
If nobody cares for me.

 ... 

So let us his example take,
And be from malice free;
Let every one his neighbour serve,
As served he'd like to be.
And merrily push the can about
And drink and sing with glee;
If nobody cares a dot for us,
Why not a dot care we.

A health to the brave, in fields afar
Sweet Freedom's foes assailing;
And high your choral burden bear,
Their names with honours hailing.
What meed awaits the fallen brave?
A nation's tears to dew them,
And bards the blooming flowers to weave,
And virgin hands to strew them.

But what their meed to whom return
In triumph's ear is granted?
Beside their comrade's laurel'd urn,
To see the olive planted,
To hear the good, the great, the fair,
Rich notes of rapture pealing.
That hig the choral burden bear,
Their names with honours hailing.

Since all thy vows, false maid, 
Are blown to air,
And my poor heart betray'd 
To sad despair,
Into some wilderness,
My grief I will express
And thy hardheartedness,
O cruel Fair!

 ... 

Some gloomy place I'll find, 
Some doleful shade
Where neither sun nor wind
E'er entrance had:
Into that hollow cave,
There will I sigh and rave,
Because thou dost behave
So faithlessly.

I'll have no funeral fire, 
Nor tears for me,
No grave do I desire, 
No obsequie;
The courteous redbreast, he,
With leaves will cover me
And sing my elegy
With doleful voice.

And when a ghost I am, 
I'll visit thee:
O thou deceitful dame, 
Whose cruelty
Has kill'd the kindest heart
That e'er felt Cupid's dart,
And never can desert
From loving thee.

By the side of the Shannon was laid a young Lover,
"I hate this dull river", he fretfully cried;
"Yon tempest is coming, this willow my cover,
How sultry the air, not a zephyr", he sigh'd.
"Go, bee! -- get along -- why so idly remaining,
For here are no roses, thou troublesome thing!
Peace nightingale! Peace to that ditty complaining
Oh, can it be thus that these nightingales sing?"
But now a light form, with a smile archly playing.
All beaming in beauty, before him appear'd;
"O Ellen!" He cried, "why thus strangely delaying,
My dearest, my Ellen, what have I not fear'd."
And then so majestic the Shannon came flowing,
That bee flew unchided the blossoms among,
The sky was serene, and the zephyrs soft blowing,
And oh! How enchanting the nightingale's song!

My harry was a gallant gay,
    Fu' stately strade he on the plain,
But now he's banish'd far away :
    I'll never see him back again.
Refrain:
  O for him back again !
  O for him back again !
  I wad gie a Knockhaspie's land
  For Higland Harry back again.

When a' the lave gae to their bed,
    I wander dowie up the glen,
I set me down and greet my fill,
    And ay I wish him back again.

O, were some villains hangit high,
    And ilka body had their ain,
Then I might see the joyfu' sight,
    My Higland Harry back again !

Sir Johnnie Cope trod the North right far,
Yet ne'er a rebel he came n'ar;
Until he landed at Dunbar,
Right early in a morning.

Refrain:
Hey Johnnie Cope are ye wauking yet,
Or are ye sleeping, I wou'd wit.
Make haste and get up, for the drums do beat,
O fie, Cope rise in the morning!

Cope wrote a challenge from Dunbar,
Come meet me, Charlie, if you dare,
If it be not by the chance of war,
I'll gi'e you a merry morning.

(Refrain)

When Charlie look'd the letter on,
He drew his sword the scabbard from:
"So heav'n restore me to my own,
I'll meet you, Cope, in the morning."

(Refrain)

When Johnnie Cope got word o'this,
He thought it wouldna be amiss
To hae a horse in readiness,
Whate'er might hap in the morning.

(Refrain)

But when he saw the Higland lads,
Wi' tartan trews and white cockades,
Wi' swords and guns, and rungs, and gauds,
He gallop'd off in the morning.

(Refrain)

"I am bow'd down, with years,
And fast flow my tears,
But I wander, I mourn not,
Your pity to win:
'Tis not age, want, or care,
I could poverty bear
'Tis the shame of my heart
That is breaking within."

Thou are bow'd down with years,
And fast flow thy tears,
But why dost thou wander
No pity to win?
Were it age, were it care,
We could soothe, we could share,
But what is the shame
Thy sad bosom within?

"Oh, if thou should'st hear
From splendour's high sphere
The sorrow, the tale,
Which these notes may convey!
Think, think of past hours,
Thy dear native bowers,
And turn not, my love,
From thy father away."

'Tis from Erin so dear
The lay that we hear,
Then welcome tha minstrel
And welcome the lay:
But where are the bowers,
And what are the hours,
And where is the daughter
That wander'd away?

"What peace thou hast known,
Since from me thou hast flown!
And, Eveleen, think
But how wretched am I!
O let me but live
Thy fault to forgive,
Again let me love thee,
And bless thee, and die!"

O cease then thy song,
She has languished too long;
She hoped not thy smile
Of forgiveness to see:
She sunk at the word,
Thy voice when she heard
And she lives (if she lives)
But for virtue and thee.

La Biondina in gondoleta
  L'altra sera gò menà:
  Dal piacer la povereta,
  La s'à in bota indormenzà.

La dormiva su sto brazzo,
  Mi ogni tanto la svegiava,
  Ma la barca che ninava
  La tornava a indormenzar.

Fra le nuvole la luna
  Gera in cielo mezza sconta,
  Gera in calma la laguna,
  Gera el vento bonazzà.

Una solo bavesèla
  Sventolava i so caveli,
  E faceva che dai veli
  Sconto el sen no fusse più.

Contemplando fisso fisso
  Le fatezze del mio ben,
  Quel viseto cussì slisso;
  Quela boca e quel bel sen,

Me sentiva drento in peto
  Una smania, un missiamento;
  Una spezie de contento
  Che no so come spiegar.

So' stà un pezzo rispetando
   Quel bel sono, e ò soportà,
   Benche Amor de quando in quando
   El m’avesse assae tentà;

E ò provà a butarme zozo
   Là con ela a pian pianin;
   Ma col fogo da vicin
   Chi averia da ripossar?

M'ò stufà po' finalmente
  De sto tanto so dormir,
  E gh'ò fato da insolente,
  Nè m'ò avudo da pentir;

Perchè, oh Dio, che bele cosse
  Che gh'ò dito, e che gh'ò fato!
  No, mai più tanto beato
  Ai me' zorni no son sta.